


Bacon Treats

by Zigster



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: (no really), First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Puppy Love, bacon treats, expensive scotch, workplace banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 13:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18262100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigster/pseuds/Zigster
Summary: “Eames keeps bacon treats in his pockets. He thinks all dogs love him.”“All dogs do love me.”“Yes, because you keep bacon treats in your pockets.”“I don’t see what you’re getting at, darling.”





	Bacon Treats

**Author's Note:**

> Isn't it a rite of passage in this fandom to write a fic where Eames loves dogs?

* * *

 

The metal double doors to the rented warehouse slam open with a resounding bang. “Good morning my delectable crumpets!” Eames announces as he strides forward, arms spread wide, holding a bouquet of sunflowers for Ariadne in one hand and, inexplicably, a length of fisherman’s rope in the other. Attached to the end of the rope is a large, mixed-breed beast with massive paws and a dark blotch of a wet nose on an otherwise white face.

Eames has brought a dog to the warehouse.

“Out,” Cobb says, pointing his finger in the direction from which they came. Eames pouts at him. It’s a formidable pout.

“Come now, dear Dom.”

Cobb shakes his head, his blond hair going askew. “Nope. Get it out of here.”

“But I can’t. It followed me.”

“Then why’d you need the rope?” Arthur asks, not bothering to raise his head from the spreadsheet he is currently assembling.

Eames turns to him, smiling. “Well, I couldn’t have the poor thing running into traffic, now could I? Paris drivers are a menace.”

“You’re a menace,” Arthur grumbles under his breath. Eames turns towards the jibe, running his tongue over his teeth, his grin widening, oddly proud.  

“Did it really follow you, Eames?” Ariadne questions as she inches closer to the furry thing, extending a hand so it can smell her scent. She’s clearly charmed.

“Of course it didn’t,” Arthur says before Eames can even answer.

Ariadne looks up at Arthur, her eyebrows furrowing in question. Arthur rolls his eyes. “Eames keeps bacon treats in his pockets. He thinks all dogs love him.”

“All dogs do love me.”

“Yes, because you keep bacon treats in your pockets.”

“I don’t see what you’re getting at, darling.”

Arthur blinks, realizes he’s three espressos short of having the will to start this fight (let alone finish it) and returns to his spreadsheet.

Cobb steps up to Eames, arms folded, squint of disdain firmly in place. “Our lease specifically states no pets.”

“We’re underworld criminal masterminds, Dom. You think the fine print matters to me?”

“It matters to me.”

“Really now? Must I remind you of the many times you’ve—”

Cobb’s hand claps over Eames mouth faster than any of them can blink, the sound echoing in the large space. The dog growls at the display of anger towards his new person, showing its teeth as its ears flatten to the back of its large, square head. Eames merely raises a smug eyebrow in Dom’s direction and the man backs off, staring down at the dog as if it were an armed bomb about to blow.

“Easy, boy.”

“It’s a she, actually.”

Ariadne loves this new piece of information and claps. “Oh, so sweet!” Eames winks at her. She sits down on the floor, legs crossed and beckons the dog with little kissing sounds. It pads over to her happily on its too-large paws, curled tail wagging. “She likes me!”

“They have a sense when it comes to people,” Eames says with a grin, rocking on his heels and sending a scathing side-eye in Cobb’s direction.

“Or, your hands were covered in bacon grease from the treats when you picked up the flowers, therefore the smell is now on Ariadne’s hands, ergo the dog wants to lick them because . . . bacon.” Arthur finishes delivering his deduction by raising his coffee mug in a mock toast, all pompous aire and egotistical self-satisfaction.

Ariadne’s joyous smile falters. She sniffs at her fingertips, the dog follows her movements, butting her hand with its head, asking for more attention. She gladly provides it but is less enthusiastic than before. Eames watches this display, frowns, and turns to Arthur with a pointed finger to his lips.

“You know, Arthur. Sometimes, you can be a bit of a bitch.”

Arthur slams the legs of his tilted chair down and looks up from his work. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re still a darling to me. But a bitch, nonetheless. I think you should apologize to Ari.”

Arthur splutters, staring at Eames, the dog, and Ariadne in turn. His face is reddening from being called out so blatantly, and despite his want to one-up Eames, hurting Ari’s feelings was never his intention. He sees her crestfallen face from across the room. She’s still sitting on the Turkish carpet, the dog happily lying half across her lap, tongue lolling. He swallows, feeling like a fool. “I’m sorry, Ari. I didn’t mea—”

“It’s okay,” she cuts him off before he can fumble. A flush has crept up her neck. Clearly, neither of them feel like expressing too many emotions this early in the morning. She nods at him though, letting him know they’re square and he flashes her a dimpled smile, feeling self-conscious but more settled.

Eames claps his hands loudly and rubs them together at the end of their exchange. “Excellent! Now that that’s all settled, what shall we call this beauty?”  He plops down next to Ariadne on the rug and the dog flings itself into his lap, legs splaying every which way, tail flapping a mile a minute. It’s obvious the dog loves him beyond any pork-related temptation. Arthur groans and drops his head into his hands.

 

\----

 

The next day, there is a large dog bed squashed beneath Arthur’s desk when he enters the warehouse. It’s been embroidered with the name ‘Gladys’ and there is a set of dog bowls near the kitchenette in the back, similarly monogrammed. Arthur throws his hands in the air and goes to move the dog bed out from under his desk just as Eames walks in, a thermos in each hand, with the dog trailing behind him, sans leash.

“No rope today?” Arthur asks, huffing as he kicks the bed away from him. It lands with a plop of dislodged dust on the floor and Gladys runs happily towards it to sniff and scratch at the soft fabric. “What’s it doing?”

“Making itself at home.” Eames grins at his beast before placing one thermos on Arthur’s desk. “Dogs like to den you know, that’s why I put the bed under there.”

“And your desk wasn’t an option?”

“I don’t have a desk, dear.”

“Just because you don’t use it doesn’t mean you don’t have one.” Arthur gestures towards the antique roll-top monstrosity in the back of the workspace.

Eames is walking away towards the kitchen, ignoring Arthur’s persistent gesticulations. If there’s an extra swish to his hips in his hideous pleated khakis (which do nothing to show off the impressive curve of his ass) Arthur pretends not to notice. The fact that he’s biting his lip to hold in his next round of ire is irrelevant. He huffs and sits back down, plucking up the thermos and taking a quick swig. It’s delicious. He frowns at it, terribly disappointed.

Gladys is dragging the dog bed back towards Arthur’s desk within moments and Arthur simply shoves out his chair and lets the dog do as it pleases. The sheer size of it and the amount of fur it possesses are reason enough to let it have its way.

Come the end of the day, Arthur has compiled a short yet imperative mental list: One, kill Eames. Two, find a new home for Gladys. Three, stock up on lint rollers.

 

\----

 

By week’s end, Arthur finds himself at wit’s end. Gladys has become a staple at the warehouse, despite Cobb’s constant disdainful squinting and grumblings on the subject. Arthur’s trousers are inevitably covered in fur by midmorning, and Eames seems to think that leaving the dog in Arthur’s care when he’s out tailing their mark is acceptable behavior.

It just so happens that Arthur is down on the floor with Gladys, petting her belly with an indulgent smile on his face when Eames bursts through the doors of the warehouse, more flowers and another thermos of coffee in hand.

“Arthur, look at you!” He’s beaming, eyes crinkling and his leering mouth as smug as ever.

Arthur ignores him and continues to scratch Gladys just below her left bottom rib causing her back leg to kick out with joy. He’s not a heartless monster; he’s susceptible to the charms of cute, fluffy things just like everybody else. He likes dogs, always has, but there’s no way he’ll ever admit that to Eames. Current evidence to the contrary notwithstanding.

Eames folds down next to him, bumping him with his shoulder. “She’s brilliant, innit?”

“Your posh accent just slipped.”

“Who cares, there’s a puppy to play with!”

“Eames, this is _not_ a puppy.”

“‘Course she is.”

“Gladys is easily a hundred pounds.”

“Ah yes. And, how many stone does that translate to?”

Arthur shoves him. “You know what I mean.”

Eames grins. “I do.”

They sit in companionable silence for a moment, lavishing Gladys with affection. She’s on her back, tongue lolled out onto the carpet, eyes closed, paws twitching with contentment. There’s a stream of sunshine pooling across Arthur’s back, making him feel warm from the inside out. He likes this feeling, this moment, everything. Yet, he knows it’s fleeting, unpredictable. Just like Eames.

“Did you know,” Eames says, breaking the sudden tension. “That whenever a dog rolls over from lying on their back, they sneeze.”

Arthur shifts away from where he’d been leaning into Eames side, remembering himself as he takes in what the man has just said. (How long had they been sitting like that?)

“Bullshit.”

Eames snorts. “No. Very much true.”

Unfortunately for Arthur, Gladys has fallen asleep in her current position and the damn dog does not turn over for the next hour before lunch. Arthur just shakes his head at his luck and leaves the warehouse to the sound of Eames whistling behind him.  

 

\----

 

Arthur’s sitting at a cafe, sipping an indulgent _chocolat chaud_ when a few school children dash by, laughter floating past them on the wind. They skid to a halt in front of an elderly woman wearing an elegant Hermes scarf draped artfully around her head and a pair of oversized Jackie O style shades. She grins at the enthusiastic children, granting permission for them to pet the lazy, old dog lounging at her feet.

The kids crouch down, scratching behind the dog’s ears and rubbing at its belly as it rolls over to allow them access for optimal tummy rubs. It’s an adorable scene, one even Arthur, cynical pragmatic that he is, can appreciate for its purity and simple unencumbered joy.

When the kids move on to the next exciting thing in their line of sight, a _glace_ cart nearby selling scoops for a euro each, the dog flips back over, wagging its tail in no doubt a thankful goodbye. To Arthur’s astonishment, it sneezes.

Arthur sits back in his chair, retroactively impressed. “Well, shit.”

 

\----

 

“How was your lunch, mon petit fromage?”

“Eames, you speak five languages, how come not one of them is French?”

“I speak perfect French.”

“You just called me _your little cheese_.”**

“Well . . . “ Eames shrugs and sends him a wink before walking off to the kitchen for a bottle of one hundred euro scotch. He lifts it in question, eyebrows raising.

“It’s barely four o’clock.”

“Your point?”

Arthur looks over to his desk which Gladys and her bed have yet again taken up residence under. He sighs and agrees to a dram. They take their glasses outside to the metal fire escape, enjoying the warmth of the early summertime air, legs dangling past the railing. Gladys pokes her head out the window, wanting to join them, but Eames tsks at her and tells her to stay put. She does, to Arthur’s surprise. He shakes his head and takes a sip, letting the peat-smoke flavor coat his tongue and quell his thoughts.

Eames, of course, prods. “Yes, dear?”

“Nothing.”

Eames shifts closer, his grin turning to a leer with every inch. “No no, it’s not nothing. I know that look,” he says, touching a delicate finger to Arthur’s furrowed brow. “Come on, tell me.”

“Gladys seems to be very well trained for you having saved her off the lethal streets of Paris only five days ago.”

Eames makes a face that can only be described as excessively fond mixed with the slightest hint of guilt.

“She’s your dog, isn’t she?”

Eames fishes a hand-rolled cigarette out of his pocket and lights the tip of the brown paper with a flourish. Arthur watches him inhale a long drag, waits as he exhales.

“Arthur,” Eames says on a smoky sigh, his voice deep, inviting. “Must you always be so… on point?”

Arthur doesn’t deign to respond. Eames nods in understanding.

“Gladys is my dog, yes.”

“How long?”

“Three years.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. “Who the hell has been watching her all this time?”  

“Me. And well…” Eames takes another drag, cuts a glance in Arthur’s direction, “... an old mate from school.”

“But you don’t have _mates_.”

Eames grins and bumps Arthur’s shoulder. The ice in his tumbler sloshes against the side of the glass. “Not as such, no.”  

The dots connect and Arthur nods, understanding blooming hot under his skin. “I see,” he says. “Gladys was a … shared dog?”

“Gladys is my child, darling, please stop calling her a dog, she can hear you.”  

Arthur moves to stand up, grumbling about Eames being impossible. Eames grabs his wrist, surprising them both. “Stay.” His face is sincere, his eyes imploring. Arthur hates himself for being taken in by such a face, and yet he resumes his seat on the rough iron of the landing. He waits.

“I won’t tell Cobb.”

Eames raises an eyebrow at him and takes a final drag of his cigarette before flicking the butt away. The afternoon sun is casting his skin in golden light, making his eyes appear amber in color, impossible and perfect. Arthur swallows. Eames watches him.

“I didn’t think you would, darling.”

“He’d kill you if he knew.”

Eames snorts out a laugh. “He’d try.”

Arthur waits a beat, then makes a decision. “I’m sorry, Eames.”

“Whatever for?”

“For Gladys’ other… person.”

Eames cuts through the warm air with a dismissive flap of his hand, gold watch jangling on his wrist. “Pshaw. She’s fine. I’m fine. It’ll all be fine.”

“They’re a fool.”

Eames drops his head and peeks up at Arthur through his lashes. “You think?” He almost looks shy.

“Yes. An asshole of epic proportions. Leaving Gladys alone with you. It’s barbaric.”

Eames throws his head back and laughs, shoving at Arthur with an affectionate elbow. “Funny, that.”

Arthur grins. And yet, he pushes further. “Really though, I’m sorry.”

“Your sincerity is doing me in, mon cher. Please, my heart can’t take it.”  

“Do you need them killed?”

This earns Arthur another laugh. It warms him from the inside out way more than the scotch ever could. He places the glass on the windowsill behind him. Another decision made.

“Arthur, as ever, you are full of delicious surprises but I don’t need—“ Eames is abruptly cut off by the determined press of Arthur’s whisky-stained lips against his own.

The advance is met with a stilled silence that cuts Arthur’s resolve down to the quick. He moves back, retreating, his cheeks going pink with rosy color. Eames doesn’t let him get very far. “Hey now,” he says before pulling him back in with both hands, finding purchase on Arthur’s pale neck. Eames rubs his thumbs over the hinge of Arthur's jaw, encouraging his mouth wider, and Arthur doesn't disappoint. 

They continue to kiss as the sun sinks lower in the sky, painting the slate rooftops of Paris with a warm tangerine glow. Down on the corner, a local busker plays an old folk song on an ancient mandolin, and behind them Gladys rests her head on the windowsill, panting softly. She snuffles once and Arthur looks up, raising an eyebrow in her direction. There's a press of soft lips to his neck, his jaw—a nibble to his ear—a whispered promise of more and Arthur closes his eyes and turns back to the persistent, impossible man before him. 

 

 

 

_Fin._

 

 

* * *

  
  
**This adorable exchange is lifted directly from a conversation President Bartlet and Abbie Bartlet have in _The West Wing_. All apologies to Aaron Sorkin and my blatant use of his charming dialogue, but it seemed very fitting for A/E at that moment.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the incomparable Oceaxe and Wysiwygot, respectively. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please leave some love if you feel so inclined.


End file.
